


Blood, Ash and Heat (Five Ways Wesley Didn't Die)

by out_there



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-16
Updated: 2004-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways it didn't end.  (Spoilers for the last episode.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood, Ash and Heat (Five Ways Wesley Didn't Die)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/) for making reminding me that "tries" is not spelt "trys". *g*

1.

She'd arrived just in time, a fury of blue hair and fast punches that knocked the dagger right out of Vail's wrinkled, red hands. Wesley dropped to the ground, standing up just in time to see a few high kicks fling the sorcerer against the wall with a satisfying crunch. Illyria moved quickly, still so quickly, and snapped his neck like a dry twig.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded with scrutinizing blue eyes.

He swallowed back his groan as he tried to step forward. A few broken ribs, but nothing that a good month of bed rest wouldn't heal. "I'll live."

"See that you do," she replied harshly. Stepping closer, she wrapped an arm around his back gently, allowing him to lean on her as he hobbled out.

"Thank you," he wheezed out. She half-carried, half-dragged him out, but he was panting for breath by the time they got to the doorway. "Stop. Please."

She stopped and let him lean against the wall. It seemed like the greatest kindness anyone had ever done for him. "Why?"

Through clenched teeth, he replied, "Rest." He stood there, gasping like a fresh carp, wondering if his lungs could possibly be as wet and full as they felt.

Standing against the wall, he let the plaster hold him up and watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful. Not pretty like Fred, not gorgeous like Cordelia. But beautiful, like some carved statue, like cut glass; hard, shimmering angles that seemed impossible to break, even if she was as mortal as the rest of them. He couldn't understand why no one else saw it.

Illyria tilted her head, watching him watch her, and that was how he saw it. Saw that tell-tale glittering shadow of a spell, saw the energy crackle like fire behind her.

He lunged, pushing her down and aside, feeling the breath forced out of his body as it shot through him, taking flesh and blood, and other things just as vital. He had a second of numbness, and heard Illyria's choked words echo through his mind.

"Stupid mortal. I could have withstood that."

***

2.

Wes is starting to wonder if he should have brought back-up. If he should have thought about this more clearly. He was sure he could play this right, was sure he could talk about Angel in just the right tone of voice, just the right mixture of contempt and jealousy. But now, Vail is watching him warily. Wes doubts that Vail does anything casually, but there's a little too much distrust in that cynical gaze.

He offers Wes a drink, and Wes tries to hide his nerves, swallowing it easily. Just a moment later he realizes how foolish that was.

The world...

...turns...

...black.

***

3.

Spike and Angel are congratulating each other and carefully checking Gunn. Wes walks up quietly, with Illyria at his side, and Gunn's face breaks out into a grin as large as his heart. "Hey. We were just talking 'bout you."

"Speak of the devil," Spike says with a sharp grin. "How did you go?"

Illyria's eyes flicker around them. "Vail is dead."

"Never underestimate a crossbow hidden up your sleeve," Wes replies with a grin of his own. He's lived. He's survived something he didn't think he would, and there's that rush of adrenaline-fueled euphoria. Such a primal reaction to a threat, but a highly enjoyable one none the less.

Illyria scowls at him. "That does not mean you will live. The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart," she says and slants her head to look at the skies, "will kill us as easily as you step on an ant. They will find us no threat."

"That's just because they don't know us yet," Gunn offers bravely, but Wesley can see the blood around his mouth, can see that it's only will-power keeping Gunn going.

"Charles," he says softly, in a tone he hasn't used in... years. Hasn't used since they were camped out at Cordelia's flat, playing Risk as if their lives depended on it.

Gunn swallows and stands up, not quite steady on his feet. He pulls himself together and stares down the street. "Ready for another round?"

Wes can hear his pulse thundering in his ears as he turns, then he sees the demonic army. It isn't his pulse he can hear, it's thousands of hooved feet stamping towards them.

"I'll take the thirty thousand on the left," Gunn jokes and Wes swallows and realizes this is it. He's going to die. Yesterday was his last day, and he spent it playing nursemaid to a being that values humanity as much as belly-button lint. He paid a few bills, watched some television, and wasted most of the day just talking and resting.

Hollering and yelling, Angel and Spike run into the fray. He stays here with Gunn and Illyria, forming a protective triangle as the creatures crowd around them. He hacks and slashes, fighting urgently and desperately. Gunn's strikes are messy, but it works to keep the creatures at bay. Illyria is more controlled, neat slices of sharp blade.

But there's too many.

Far too many.

Gunn falls first, more from his earlier, still-bleeding wounds than the blow that hits him across the shoulder. He crumples into unconsciousness, and Wes and Illyria form a wider circle, protecting the body between them. He swings his sword wildly, keeping the vultures at bay. Illyria is at his back, stabbing efficiently, and moving on to the next one, and the next, but eventually one stabs back. She folds over in pain, but he's too busy fending off sharp claws and teeth to be able to do anything about it.

The final stroke comes, ripping a burning line across his torso, and Wes hears Illyria's moan as he collapses on top of Gunn's strong legs. He breaths in blood, ash and heat, and thinks that he spent his last day perfectly.

***

4.

Wes blinks himself into consciousness, and finds himself in a cage. Metal bars in front of him and above him, and it seems vaguely familiar. Groggily, he pushes himself to his feet to find Angel staring at him.

"Angel...?" There's something strange in Angel's expression, in the quirk of his grin.

"Recognize anything, Wes?"

Wes blinks at the mocking tone, at the hardness of the words, and then he understands. "Angelus."

Angelus grins, all sharp canines. "In the flesh."

Glancing around, Wes knows why he recognized the bars. It's the same cell they kept Angelus in at the hotel. "Am I back at the hotel?"

"It doesn't matter where you are." Angelus laughs, scraping the key in the lock. The door swings open and he steps inside, somehow taking up far more space than Angel ever does. "You won't be here for long."

Wes takes a futile step back as Angelus locks the cage behind him. He feels like a lion tamer, except they had whips and chairs. And lions aren't this vicious. "But... how?" he asks, stalling for time.

"The Circle of the Black Thorn."

"Angel knew?"

"Angel's an idiot," Angelus replied with a sneer. "Anyone stupid enough to sign a prophecy without reading the fine print doesn't deserve to live. Which, if you think about it, makes this turn of events well deserved." Angelus' smirk is deadly, and he keeps walking closer, one step at a time, forcing Wes to back away.

Wes takes another step backwards, and feels the bars against his back. "They fooled Angel into signing away his soul?"

"They never wanted Angel." Angelus looks him up and down slowly, and then licks his lips. "They wanted *me*."

"And how did I get here?" That's the million dollar question. How did Wes end up trapped in a cage with a bloodthirsty sadist...? He doesn't ask if there's any way out, because he can already see that Angelus is too smart to give him any chance.

"I chloroformed you while you slept." Wes can just picture Angelus holding the bottle and cotton strip, just like the killer in a cheesy murder mystery. Angelus would probably consider that a compliment. "Dragged you in here and waited for the fun to begin."

"The fun?" Wes swallows and tries not to think about Angelus' M.O. Tries not to think of Watcher books and detailed descriptions and horrified sketches of what the bodies looked like afterwards. "What fun?"

"You know what fun." Angelus smiles slowly, and suddenly steps closer, grabbing Wes wrists and squeezing until the bones creak. Wes winces against the shooting pain. "I'm going to pull you apart, and put you back together, and then pull you apart again just for the sake of it. I'm going to keep you alive until every breath is an eternity, until all you know is pain, until all you see is me. I'm going to have *fun*."

Wes nods, knowing that Angelus must be able to smell his fear. It must be an overwhelming scent now. He glances around and sees what he feared most: there's nothing in this room that could possibly be used to kill himself. There's no way out of this trap.

"And eventually, you're going to be glad to see me. Eventually, you'll *beg* me to touch you," Angelus promises damply against his neck. Wes shivers at the first scrape of teeth against skin, and then Angelus is drinking, sucking like a giant leech; it burns and it freezes him, and he doesn't even try to stop his pitiful whimpers.

***

5.

The morning after the battle is amazing. The sunshine feels warmer, the air smells sweeter, and life itself seems like a miracle. Even the fog of L.A. seems wonderful, adding an extra layer of color to the sunrise. They won. They went up against the senior partners and won. Sure, they're bloody and bruised, and the senior partners are only experiencing a mild set back, but it's a victory nonetheless.

Wes looks around at the huddled groups of Slayers. Not possibles, not potentials, but Slayers; each one of them as strong and as fast, if not as experienced, as Buffy herself. He doesn't know when or how Angel contacted them. Actually, he doesn't know if it was Angel or Spike that sent word, but either way, he's grateful. Grateful for the busloads of young women arriving just in time, grateful for the clouds of perfumed fighters that slaughtered the creatures. Grateful for Giles and Willow, and the rest of that powerful coven that pushed the three beasts out of L.A.

Wes leans back, stretching his feet toward the campfire someone started. The magic users are mainly asleep, all except Willow who's chatting excitedly to some brunette Slayer. Andrew and Giles are talking about something, something Wes is too tired to think about now. Xander went on a beer-run, taking Faith to drive him; there's something very amusing about that. Buffy, Spike and Angel have disappeared somewhere and Wes knows he's definitely happier not knowing the details of that conversation.

Illyria sits to his left, watching everyone with a hawk-like fascination. She's trying to absorb everything, but she won't leave his side. It's almost sweet, and he appreciates the warmth of her body against his arm. On his right, Gunn's looking a bit pale but he's not letting that stop him drinking, holding the beer with one hand while the other wraps around Wes's shoulders, holding him tight.

Wes feels warm and happy, repeating his mantra inside his head. They won. They won, and those two little words sound like the best idea ever invented. He's content and comfortable, and surrounded by the people he loves. This is how victory should be.

Wes rests his head on Gunn's shoulder, mumbling something about being tired, and lets himself drift away. He can't remember if he mentioned the wound to Gunn or not, but underneath his leather coat, he can feel warm, sticky blood seeping into his shirt. He'll tell them when he wakes up, when he's not so tired, not so buzzed on victory and weak American beer.

He'll tell them as soon as he wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://out-there.livejournal.com/515592.html?mode=reply).


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